on a Monday morning James woke up. Water dripped from an unseen faucet. The low howl of the wind traveled along the pipes. Down in the street a dog barked and a car door slammed.
Stiffly James rose from bed. As he crossed the room he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.
His chifforobe had grown soft, white, bunny fur in the night. It pulsed gently in the corner of the room cooing and moving with in itself. It beckoned to him, yearning to feel his competent fingers assessing its tactile merits. Who was James to refuse? He knelt and began to caress the chifforobe. It shuttered all over with delight.
The phone rang. Reluctantly, James answered it.
On the other end of the line a mechanical voice warned him of a vicious fur outbreak. In the event that he was exposed to an out break he was instructed to saw his own hands off. James did not own a saw.
James ended the call.
No machine could understand how soft the fur was.
He had to protect the fur. It could not be discovered there was a fur outbreak in his tenth floor apartment. The authorities would advance with chemicals. They would exterminate the virus.
He rushed into his bedroom and fell on his knees before the chifforobe.
He plunged his rough calloused into the soft white fur.
Oh the sensation! The pulsing appereication of the clean white fur!
It fed off his adoration.
In response to his solicatious petting it spread. It leapt from the surface of one piece of furniture, to another, than to another.
In a matter of hours it had begun to climb the walls.
In another few hours it covered the floors, the windows, and the ceiling.
That night a soft and cuddly death patiently began to steal over James.
It was so soothing, he could not suspect he had become the disease.
He only wanted to be caressed. To respond to the feel, the pressure of warm hands
to spread infinitely outward always growing, always changing.
James was the virus. The virus was James.
Soft downy fur pushed its way through his follicles. It evicted his corse human hair.
The white fur spread quickly within in a quarter of an hour he was covered from head to toe.
His eyes were changing shape, his vision was both narrowing and expanding.
When he leaned against the wall he disappeared completely. His pink eyes blinking were the only distinction between him and the , soft, white, pulsing fur .
His fingers twisted in there sockets, they were changing shape.
He could not keep his hands off himself.
His senses heightened, he could here the tumblers in the lock of the neighbors apartment door.
He crept out into the hall, a light had burned out providing a theatrical twilight.
He crept on his newly fury feet to stand directly behind Jose, a sweaty Latino he had never cared for.
He snaked his furry hands along his arms and biceps, he flinched and struggled. Than inside the glory of acceptance he gave into to the fur.
They cuddled for nearly fifteen minutes, when James strolled away from Jose soft white fur was rapidly covering his skin.
James made his way down the stairs, trailing his rapidly mutating paws along the hand rail: White fur sprouting where his paws had touched.
He burst through the lobby doors and hit the street. He was all impulse one-hundred percent sensation. Only the sensory experience existed for him there was only the currant moment nothing before this exact moment and nothing after. No consequences only movement only sound..................
Friday, April 6, 2012
Friday, April 8, 2011
The littlest truck driver that could
The family Holiday stood ankle deep in mud outside the gates of the grave-yard. The sky rumbled and dark clouds rolled in, in the distance lighting streaked the horizon, the tallest member of the family flung an arm upward in a futile gesture of frustration, there was an enormous crack of thunder that shook the ground and rattled the gates of the grave-yard. The gates were not locked but the wind from the storm had slammed them closed in the night, and now the thunder shook the air, and the gates swung open. The man dropped his arm, startled at the coincidence, he rested his hand on the broad speckled back of his eldest daughter. He gave her a gentle shove, she was the first through the gate. Once on the other side she turned towards her family and facing them broke into a short routine of light calisthenics, the rain began to fall and after the applause she jogged towards her grandfathers grave. The rest of the family followed stopping at the gate-house to retrieve the coffin. They marched with singular purpose through the storm, in the mud towards the open grave.
The grave was filled with water, the coffin would not fit. The senior male member of the family looked skyward and signaled violently with his hands, planes rushed over head in the distance the slow pragmatic sound of heavy equipment could be heard. Temporarily the wind and rain slacked a bit, the dark sky hung above the muddy grave-yard, and the Holiday Family redirected their vapid gaze, away from the scarred earth, towards the sound of approaching equipment.
The crew appeared , a flotilla of heavy machinery in the thick sea of mud. The tractor lost its balance and had to back up, “BEEP BEEP BEEP” it cried as it pulled itself free from the heavy mud. The driver had decorated the inside of his cab with cheery Christmas lights, the bulldozer behind him had lashed a pink Christmas tree to its grill and streams of blinking lights drug behind it in the mud. The truck with the sump pump pulled abreast of the two greater machines, but what the little truck lacked in stature it mad up for in enthusiasm. The entire truck was outlined in lights and a deer completely comprised of lights was mounted on top of the cab. It was a marvelous sight and a cheer went up from the holiday family as they saw assistance approaching.
They were so eager to show their appreciation that they tore flowers from the funeral wreaths and striped the petals form the stalks, tossing them in front of the tractor. The operator was so moved that he leaned out of his cab and steering with his knees, waved a gentle magnanimous wave, coquettishly turning and glancing over his shoulder to the delight of the mourners, who laughed and clapped and cheered, till their joy turned on them and became a unified sorrow.
The Holiday family collapsed in a heap and begun to wail, so that when the smug festive little truck driver passed them they threw no flowers and raised no cheers, and he took it to heart and was wounded by their apathy. After all, he thought, I am the one who will drain the grave of water so that they can commend their grandfather to the earth.
He pulled along side the bigger machine's, exited the cab of his truck and approached the heavy equipment operators who were loathe to help him unload the sump pump. The heavy equipment operators didn’t want to know the driver of the little truck, they haphazardly helped him to unload than they walked away without a word. Leaving the driver of the little truck alone to complete the arduous task of drainage.
The family holiday continued to weep as a group finding consultation in their shared misery.
The driver of the little truck had to work furiously, against time, against the weather, all alone soaked through to the skin, while the heavy equipment operators relaxed waiting until they were needed.
At last the grave was drained, the driver of the little truck was exhausted. He slogged through the heavy mud to inform the Holiday family, who were moaning and failing their arms in a demonstration of sorrow. But they had grow weary of their own show, and only wanted to get out of the elements and when the senior member of the family saw the approach of the driver, he broke off from the group and met the man, resting a heavy hand on one of his shoulders and smooching a damp twenty dollar bill in his hand. The driver of the little truck spirits were lifted, anyone could see how empty the construction show was, people needed him, he should not get so down he was the one people needed. He strode back to his little truck and hopped into its little cab and sped away from the grave yard, he moved so swiftly that the deer mounted to the top of the cab fell off, he did not stop for it only chased the rest of the morning through the grave-yard gate, leaving behind the family holiday, and the vainglorious heavy equipment operators
The grave was filled with water, the coffin would not fit. The senior male member of the family looked skyward and signaled violently with his hands, planes rushed over head in the distance the slow pragmatic sound of heavy equipment could be heard. Temporarily the wind and rain slacked a bit, the dark sky hung above the muddy grave-yard, and the Holiday Family redirected their vapid gaze, away from the scarred earth, towards the sound of approaching equipment.
The crew appeared , a flotilla of heavy machinery in the thick sea of mud. The tractor lost its balance and had to back up, “BEEP BEEP BEEP” it cried as it pulled itself free from the heavy mud. The driver had decorated the inside of his cab with cheery Christmas lights, the bulldozer behind him had lashed a pink Christmas tree to its grill and streams of blinking lights drug behind it in the mud. The truck with the sump pump pulled abreast of the two greater machines, but what the little truck lacked in stature it mad up for in enthusiasm. The entire truck was outlined in lights and a deer completely comprised of lights was mounted on top of the cab. It was a marvelous sight and a cheer went up from the holiday family as they saw assistance approaching.
They were so eager to show their appreciation that they tore flowers from the funeral wreaths and striped the petals form the stalks, tossing them in front of the tractor. The operator was so moved that he leaned out of his cab and steering with his knees, waved a gentle magnanimous wave, coquettishly turning and glancing over his shoulder to the delight of the mourners, who laughed and clapped and cheered, till their joy turned on them and became a unified sorrow.
The Holiday family collapsed in a heap and begun to wail, so that when the smug festive little truck driver passed them they threw no flowers and raised no cheers, and he took it to heart and was wounded by their apathy. After all, he thought, I am the one who will drain the grave of water so that they can commend their grandfather to the earth.
He pulled along side the bigger machine's, exited the cab of his truck and approached the heavy equipment operators who were loathe to help him unload the sump pump. The heavy equipment operators didn’t want to know the driver of the little truck, they haphazardly helped him to unload than they walked away without a word. Leaving the driver of the little truck alone to complete the arduous task of drainage.
The family holiday continued to weep as a group finding consultation in their shared misery.
The driver of the little truck had to work furiously, against time, against the weather, all alone soaked through to the skin, while the heavy equipment operators relaxed waiting until they were needed.
At last the grave was drained, the driver of the little truck was exhausted. He slogged through the heavy mud to inform the Holiday family, who were moaning and failing their arms in a demonstration of sorrow. But they had grow weary of their own show, and only wanted to get out of the elements and when the senior member of the family saw the approach of the driver, he broke off from the group and met the man, resting a heavy hand on one of his shoulders and smooching a damp twenty dollar bill in his hand. The driver of the little truck spirits were lifted, anyone could see how empty the construction show was, people needed him, he should not get so down he was the one people needed. He strode back to his little truck and hopped into its little cab and sped away from the grave yard, he moved so swiftly that the deer mounted to the top of the cab fell off, he did not stop for it only chased the rest of the morning through the grave-yard gate, leaving behind the family holiday, and the vainglorious heavy equipment operators
Friday, July 30, 2010
July 30th
There has been a noise complaint, I lean in my doorway smoking a cigarette, its humid and drizzling, the kind of sticky weather where you feel dirty all day long- above the clouds are black and menacing the birds are silent, hard rain will come soon.
"Ma'am, I just need to take down some information," the officer says to me. I admire how seriously he is taking this situation and himself it must be wonderful to know your place in the world.
"What do you do?" he asks, all business with his pad flipped open, the corpses of a thousand dead crickets beneath his heavy boots.
'I write, I tell him, " Really?" He seems interested, impressed even, "What do you write about, do your support yourself," I stop him by putting my hand up: "I didn't say I was any good." The rain along with the wind picks up. He goes back to business; " Someone has had their television turned up very loud, telemundo, is the channel that was mentioned in the report..................
"Ma'am, I just need to take down some information," the officer says to me. I admire how seriously he is taking this situation and himself it must be wonderful to know your place in the world.
"What do you do?" he asks, all business with his pad flipped open, the corpses of a thousand dead crickets beneath his heavy boots.
'I write, I tell him, " Really?" He seems interested, impressed even, "What do you write about, do your support yourself," I stop him by putting my hand up: "I didn't say I was any good." The rain along with the wind picks up. He goes back to business; " Someone has had their television turned up very loud, telemundo, is the channel that was mentioned in the report..................
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Peep hole
There is a knock at my door, I standing semi-dressed eyeing a man I have never seen before through my peep hole.
"Yeah," I say, running my toes along the grit of my cheap parquet floor, when was the last time I swept I wonder.
"Ma'am, I want to thank you for leaving your television on," he says, what the hell is this guy talking about? Through the peep hole I see he holds his hat in his hand, rain is dripping from the upper floor eves, my view of the world through the peep hole has a distorted quality, like the fish lens effect in Heath ledger's last movie, I like it.
"My T.V's not on sir," I explain, more interested in the nifty distortion of the peep hole, " I heard voices, he states flatly:
"I do not understand why you are thanking me for having my television on," this conversation is decidedly strange;
"I just moved in" he tells me, "Oh," I say to him, "the walls are very thin, you will get use to it in time, we all do," "but I heard voices" he tells me- AGAIN: he has officially annoyed me.
"Maybe your a schizophrenic," I suggest, through the peep hole I can see this upsets him, I don't care. I go into the bedroom and turn my television to telemundo cranking the volume full blast, than I sit at my desk and listen to my tomahawk play list loudly, while I write- I wish I was drunk.
"Yeah," I say, running my toes along the grit of my cheap parquet floor, when was the last time I swept I wonder.
"Ma'am, I want to thank you for leaving your television on," he says, what the hell is this guy talking about? Through the peep hole I see he holds his hat in his hand, rain is dripping from the upper floor eves, my view of the world through the peep hole has a distorted quality, like the fish lens effect in Heath ledger's last movie, I like it.
"My T.V's not on sir," I explain, more interested in the nifty distortion of the peep hole, " I heard voices, he states flatly:
"I do not understand why you are thanking me for having my television on," this conversation is decidedly strange;
"I just moved in" he tells me, "Oh," I say to him, "the walls are very thin, you will get use to it in time, we all do," "but I heard voices" he tells me- AGAIN: he has officially annoyed me.
"Maybe your a schizophrenic," I suggest, through the peep hole I can see this upsets him, I don't care. I go into the bedroom and turn my television to telemundo cranking the volume full blast, than I sit at my desk and listen to my tomahawk play list loudly, while I write- I wish I was drunk.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Checking out
I was checking out of the motel I had spent a restless night in. No one was at the front desk. I waited for some time I glanced out the window at the rain, when I turned back towards the desk a women was there, I had not heard her approach. She said nothing just stood watching me with green vacant eyes. I found her unsettling. I said nothing and handed her my room key. She took it with out a word. I turned away and headed for the door.
“Sir,” she called out. I turned around. “Do you find me attractive?”
The room seemed to have grown smaller. She kept her empty eyes fixed on me. Inexplicably the desk was inching its way closer and closer to me. Till it pressed against me, pushing its hard angles into my weak flesh. I found myself face to face with the spooky green-eyed woman.
She kissed me. My back was against the door, Reaching behind me I felt for the door handle. Despite myself I felt myself getting aroused. I did not want to be aroused by a spooky green-eyed woman with supernatural motel powers- but I was. The situation was hopeless. I could not find the door handle, and every moment I failed to escape I was becoming more and more drawn in. Soon there would be no escape. The kiss went on for an unnaturally long time. It was uncomfortable. My neck became stiff; my lips were tender her lips were course and dry. The kiss went on and on. At long last she pulled away. I sighed. For a moment she looked deep into my eyes they were not vacant now but filled with the basest lust and desperation. The intensity of her gaze made me feel naked- within in her gaze was a unflattering reflection of my own unfulfilled needs. When it seemed that all was lost- my hand grasped the handle of the door.
Running through the pouring rain I located my car and climbed inside. The green-eyed front desk clerk was waiting patiently for me. I began driving quickly from the motel. My plan was to act as though there was nothing strange about her being in my car. Nothing strange, about how she was able to beat to me my car, through the rain, without getting wet, nothing strange about the fact she was able to get inside my car without keys, nothing strange about the small childish suitcase she was grasping to her chest, no, there was nothing strange about this at all.
What else could I do? “I am all packed.” She informed me. “Good, I hope you brought a bathing suit.” I said. “No, I did not why would I?” “So we can go swimming of course.” My voice came out cheerful, full of anticipation of good times. “This rain will never end.” She told me. I looked over at her in the dim twilight of the car, her voice was so sad. I saw that she was crying. I was invaded by her sorrow. I pulled the car over and parked -we were on a bluff over looking a river surrounded by ragged mountains, ghostly gray shapes in the rain.
I attempted to remove the tiny suitcase from her grasp. But she struggled, she put up a fight. I was furious that she should resist me. With great violence I wrested the small plastic case from her: the hard plastic edges brusing the tender flesh of her upper arms. She whimpred and then gave up- her arms went limp and she struggled no more.
I opened it, inside was a baffling mixture of things. A dolls dress, a dildo, a wratcet set, a certificate proclaiming her satisfactory completion of a two year hotel management program, loose change, Mini- blinds, comprehensive instructions on mainting your very own square foot garden, a gold ring. The clothing was the wardrobe of a young girl, all cheerful pastels. I searched for a swim suit. There was none. “You should have packed a swim suit.” I told her. “Now the rain will never end.” She turned to me and I could see she had shrunk she was now a little girl. I watched her as she turned the key in the ignition and put the car in drive. “I apologize, usually check out is less traumatic.” She told me. “I see,” I replied. By now the car was in freefall and I knew soon it would crash into the river below.
“Sir,” she called out. I turned around. “Do you find me attractive?”
The room seemed to have grown smaller. She kept her empty eyes fixed on me. Inexplicably the desk was inching its way closer and closer to me. Till it pressed against me, pushing its hard angles into my weak flesh. I found myself face to face with the spooky green-eyed woman.
She kissed me. My back was against the door, Reaching behind me I felt for the door handle. Despite myself I felt myself getting aroused. I did not want to be aroused by a spooky green-eyed woman with supernatural motel powers- but I was. The situation was hopeless. I could not find the door handle, and every moment I failed to escape I was becoming more and more drawn in. Soon there would be no escape. The kiss went on for an unnaturally long time. It was uncomfortable. My neck became stiff; my lips were tender her lips were course and dry. The kiss went on and on. At long last she pulled away. I sighed. For a moment she looked deep into my eyes they were not vacant now but filled with the basest lust and desperation. The intensity of her gaze made me feel naked- within in her gaze was a unflattering reflection of my own unfulfilled needs. When it seemed that all was lost- my hand grasped the handle of the door.
Running through the pouring rain I located my car and climbed inside. The green-eyed front desk clerk was waiting patiently for me. I began driving quickly from the motel. My plan was to act as though there was nothing strange about her being in my car. Nothing strange, about how she was able to beat to me my car, through the rain, without getting wet, nothing strange about the fact she was able to get inside my car without keys, nothing strange about the small childish suitcase she was grasping to her chest, no, there was nothing strange about this at all.
What else could I do? “I am all packed.” She informed me. “Good, I hope you brought a bathing suit.” I said. “No, I did not why would I?” “So we can go swimming of course.” My voice came out cheerful, full of anticipation of good times. “This rain will never end.” She told me. I looked over at her in the dim twilight of the car, her voice was so sad. I saw that she was crying. I was invaded by her sorrow. I pulled the car over and parked -we were on a bluff over looking a river surrounded by ragged mountains, ghostly gray shapes in the rain.
I attempted to remove the tiny suitcase from her grasp. But she struggled, she put up a fight. I was furious that she should resist me. With great violence I wrested the small plastic case from her: the hard plastic edges brusing the tender flesh of her upper arms. She whimpred and then gave up- her arms went limp and she struggled no more.
I opened it, inside was a baffling mixture of things. A dolls dress, a dildo, a wratcet set, a certificate proclaiming her satisfactory completion of a two year hotel management program, loose change, Mini- blinds, comprehensive instructions on mainting your very own square foot garden, a gold ring. The clothing was the wardrobe of a young girl, all cheerful pastels. I searched for a swim suit. There was none. “You should have packed a swim suit.” I told her. “Now the rain will never end.” She turned to me and I could see she had shrunk she was now a little girl. I watched her as she turned the key in the ignition and put the car in drive. “I apologize, usually check out is less traumatic.” She told me. “I see,” I replied. By now the car was in freefall and I knew soon it would crash into the river below.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Purgatory Sex twins
By
Jane Callan
Jane Callan
Purgatory Sex Twins
She wanted to go upstairs. I walked with her up the long flight of stairs when I reached the last step I stopped.
“I can’t go with you any further.”
She fixed her large dark eyes on me for a moment than she turned and lifted one foot but mid step she paused and turned back towards me.
“I am not sure if I want to go upstairs. I am not sure that there is an upstairs.” Her voice was thin and tear filled.
I said nothing. What could I say?
We walked back down the long flight of stairs, she tried to speak but her voice caught in her throat. There was nothing she could say to me I had not thought before. I knew that when we got to the bottom of the stairs that she would began to pontificate about what might be upstairs. I knew she would want me to walk her to the top of the stairs again. I would want to tell her NO! But I knew I would -I would take her small cold hand in mine and lead her to the top of the stairs . And again when we reached the final step I would have to tell her that I could go no further. She is afraid to go alone. I killed her because she was killing me. I killed my twin.
I beat her to death with a shovel. If you have never swung a shovel over your head again and again and listened to the flat sound of it coming into contact with vulnerable weak flesh you have missed out.
I killed her in the kitchen, there was so much blood I lost my footing and fell next her dieing body. My perfect twin, as she lay dieing I kissed her. I ripped her thin, blood soaked blouse. Buttons exploded into the heavy air saturated with the scent of her blood. She raised her hand to my face and smiled. I wound my self around her and sucked on her bloody tits, I kissed her neck the salty taste of blood sent an erotic charge through me. I pulled the rest of her clothing off and held her I had never loved her more than when she was my murder victim. She spread her legs for me and I thrust myself inside her I could feel her dieing.
“Thank you, I was tired of making decisions, but what will we do about the person upstairs?” “It isn’t fair the way we were created- there could never be another man for me, and I ruined you for other women. I could never make my mind up, now I will not have to think so much.” Her last words in this life were filled with peace.
Blood from the inside of her was leaking out of her mouth, she spurted and spat a I covered her mouth with mine and drank it in. I loved my sister so much.
Why had we been born male and female in two bodies? Life was a living hell for us. She was dead now. I held her and wept. Her body was still warm, and blood poured out from her. The kitchen floor was a sea of blood. While she was still warm and wet from blood I had sex her with her again. I rolled her over and fucked her in the ass, but it was not the same with out her screaming, it would not be the same with out the struggle. What had I done?
I went into the bathroom and took a shower. I watched the pink colored water flow down the drain, I wept, it was my sisters blood running down the drain. My body convulsed thinking of her cold and still in a rapidly congealing pool of blood. I loved her. I loved her as much as I hated myself. And for that there could be no measure. She could not live with out me. I could not live with her without succumbing to my most disgusting sexual desires.
We tried to live apart. We tried to be normal, in the three years we lived in different parts of the country she overdosed twice on sleeping pills and slashed her wrists. Each time at the final moment when death had come for her she had called an ambulance, she could not make up her mind, she wasn’t sure, even when she was dieing she could feel me, even now the absence of her heart beat within me was unbearably hollow. That was what no one understood. That we could feel each others heart beats, feel each others pains, if she banged her wrist on the side of the table pain shot through my wrist. When she was angry at me and feeling neglected, she would stab herself, pull her hair, if she suspected I was with a women she would squeeze the lips of her pussy making it difficult for me to maintain my erection, if I managed to and to cum she would feel it she would feel what I would feel and I would feel the special brand of rejection and self-hatred that only women have made all there own. Other times she would masturbate when she knew I was at work, I would feel the build- feel the straining of my mussels She would take a long time to climax, it was agony. I would call her and tell her to finish herself off.
“Please, please just finish!” I would beg her.
“Talk to me, tell me about the first time when you fucked me, describe what it felt like, tell me how tight it was -describe how it hurt me”. The desperation in her voice repelled me, but I would do it I would tell her how it was, then she would cum and the line would go dead. We were so connected that when I fucked her for the first time I could feel her pain. I could feel the pain of a young girl losing her virginity and the gratification of a rapist. What delightfully sadistic agony too feel both sensations at once!
Are folks died and we inherited the house and money I moved in with her. We did not have to work, plenty of doe. We were alone together in the house day in and out, I could see no point in trying to lead a normal life, after three years away from her I knew that it was no use. A few times when we had been apart she had taken men to bed with her, she went out of her way to debase herself, I could feel her pain I could feel the emptiness such encounters left inside her. I had raped her when we were children and no other sexual experience could match that memory, so I gave in. I gave in and began living with her. We slept in the same bed we avoided people- we liked to pretend that this was love.
I grew bored I could not enjoy sex with out hurting her. I could feel her pain, and it hurt like hell but she could feel my excitement and when I came she came in response. The only problem was that each time I had to go further to get aroused.
First I held her down, soon that was not enough I had to tie her down. That held me for a long while, over a year. There is something really exciting about watching thin bruised wrists strain against ropes. There is something intoxicating about genuine cries of pain of humiliation. I would cover her mouth with one hand and lean against her throat with my arm I would watch her eyes bulge. See her face drain of blood. Then she would be still and fix those dark eyes on me she was feeling what I was feeling disgust and sexual gratification. This was enough for awhile. Her favorite part was afterwards when I would bathe her, satisfaction would invade her as I gingerly lay her in the water, I could feel her I could feel love the love she felt for me and I loved her then. I would scrub every inch of her. Often while I was scrubbing between her legs with hot water she would cum, which in turn would make me cum. These were are salad days.
Two years passed before I truly began to hate her. She could feel my hate. I felt the hopeless feeling, the despair she felt I knew I had to kill her- every waking moment was agony for her. Hate is the wrong word for what I felt for her. There isn’t a word deep enough to describe what I felt for her, everything she felt I felt. Everything I felt she felt. It was too much sensation. She felt my hatered and repulsion for her. She felt the hatred and repulsion I felt for myself. Her capacity for love and hate went much deeper than mine.
What created us? I had done research on other twins I could not find evidence of anything even approaching the physical and emotional connection we shared- we were truly one person in two separate bodies.
The incest continued becoming more and more depraved. One afternoon I convinced her to let the dog fuck her. I could feel her self hatred I could feel the erotic charge of ultimate humiliation, the sensation was so powerful that for a fraction of a second we were both able to feel what the dog was feeling, we could hear with a dogs ears we could feel her the way the dog did. The canines primitive thrusting was a new high, but it was also the final low. I had to pour water on them to separate them she was bleeding, I kicked the dog. Then I fell on top of her she was screaming. I could feel how raw she was I could feel everything, the current of self-hatred her lungs taking in air to scream. Her throat was raw her pussy was raw, and she would not stop screaming, the neighbors might call the police.
I drug her by the hair into the kitchen, she lay on the floor it was as if she was possessed she was trying to speak but the words were guttural, demonic primitive . She tried to stand pulling herself up on the counter smearing blood everywhere. I could not look at her. For the first time in my life I could not feel her. I could not know her. But I was the cause of this. I created this so it was my job to put it out of its misery.
I went outside to get a shovel, it did not occur to me to use a knife somewhere between the house and the garden shed the idea of sodomizing her with the handle of the shovel sent a charge through me and I could feel her again I could feel her cringe, I could feel that intoxicating current of self-hatred and sexual arousal. In my mind I spoke to her I comforted her, I was able to soothe her fear.
“It will be over soon, I promise”
And I could feel a warm feeling, comfort- she was comforted.
After I had killed her and made love to her, I felt freer I was no longer weighted down by an extra set of emotions. When the night came I still had not cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, rather than cook dinner I ordered a pizza. Then I went down to my locale watering hole and I drank and drank, I could not feel the double feeling of getting two people drunk, and behind my eyes was the image of my twin sister. I wanted her so bad and for the first time it dawned on me that I would never ever have her again.
When I got back home I fell onto the couch and slept but my dreams were only my own. I woke with the dawn and went to the garden shed I grabbed a bottle of ant poison and swallowed as much as I could. For a fraction of a second I could feel her. I went back to the house sat on the couch and drank the rest of the poison. A pain so intense seized me and I could feel her feeling my pain.
“I am coming I told her I am on my way.” I told her
I was standing with her at the bottom of a stair case; we were together, again in death. We mounted the marble staircase, it was a long flight of stairs, and we held hands when we got to the top she paused.
“I don’t know if I want to go upstairs after all.” She whispered.
We never discussed it but we both understood that I would not be able to ascend the stair case with her; if she went upstairs she would leave me behind for good. We would be apart forever more. I killed her and myself I would never be allowed upstairs.
“Let’s go down one more time, ok?”
“Ok.” I said and we went back down the stairs.
Perhaps eons of time have already passed, perhaps mere hours, how can I know?
Even in death we are not free of one another- until she goes upstairs we will never be free but neither of us is willing to part. So up and down the stairs we go. Up and down the stairs for all eternity.
She wanted to go upstairs. I walked with her up the long flight of stairs when I reached the last step I stopped.
“I can’t go with you any further.”
She fixed her large dark eyes on me for a moment than she turned and lifted one foot but mid step she paused and turned back towards me.
“I am not sure if I want to go upstairs. I am not sure that there is an upstairs.” Her voice was thin and tear filled.
I said nothing. What could I say?
We walked back down the long flight of stairs, she tried to speak but her voice caught in her throat. There was nothing she could say to me I had not thought before. I knew that when we got to the bottom of the stairs that she would began to pontificate about what might be upstairs. I knew she would want me to walk her to the top of the stairs again. I would want to tell her NO! But I knew I would -I would take her small cold hand in mine and lead her to the top of the stairs . And again when we reached the final step I would have to tell her that I could go no further. She is afraid to go alone. I killed her because she was killing me. I killed my twin.
I beat her to death with a shovel. If you have never swung a shovel over your head again and again and listened to the flat sound of it coming into contact with vulnerable weak flesh you have missed out.
I killed her in the kitchen, there was so much blood I lost my footing and fell next her dieing body. My perfect twin, as she lay dieing I kissed her. I ripped her thin, blood soaked blouse. Buttons exploded into the heavy air saturated with the scent of her blood. She raised her hand to my face and smiled. I wound my self around her and sucked on her bloody tits, I kissed her neck the salty taste of blood sent an erotic charge through me. I pulled the rest of her clothing off and held her I had never loved her more than when she was my murder victim. She spread her legs for me and I thrust myself inside her I could feel her dieing.
“Thank you, I was tired of making decisions, but what will we do about the person upstairs?” “It isn’t fair the way we were created- there could never be another man for me, and I ruined you for other women. I could never make my mind up, now I will not have to think so much.” Her last words in this life were filled with peace.
Blood from the inside of her was leaking out of her mouth, she spurted and spat a I covered her mouth with mine and drank it in. I loved my sister so much.
Why had we been born male and female in two bodies? Life was a living hell for us. She was dead now. I held her and wept. Her body was still warm, and blood poured out from her. The kitchen floor was a sea of blood. While she was still warm and wet from blood I had sex her with her again. I rolled her over and fucked her in the ass, but it was not the same with out her screaming, it would not be the same with out the struggle. What had I done?
I went into the bathroom and took a shower. I watched the pink colored water flow down the drain, I wept, it was my sisters blood running down the drain. My body convulsed thinking of her cold and still in a rapidly congealing pool of blood. I loved her. I loved her as much as I hated myself. And for that there could be no measure. She could not live with out me. I could not live with her without succumbing to my most disgusting sexual desires.
We tried to live apart. We tried to be normal, in the three years we lived in different parts of the country she overdosed twice on sleeping pills and slashed her wrists. Each time at the final moment when death had come for her she had called an ambulance, she could not make up her mind, she wasn’t sure, even when she was dieing she could feel me, even now the absence of her heart beat within me was unbearably hollow. That was what no one understood. That we could feel each others heart beats, feel each others pains, if she banged her wrist on the side of the table pain shot through my wrist. When she was angry at me and feeling neglected, she would stab herself, pull her hair, if she suspected I was with a women she would squeeze the lips of her pussy making it difficult for me to maintain my erection, if I managed to and to cum she would feel it she would feel what I would feel and I would feel the special brand of rejection and self-hatred that only women have made all there own. Other times she would masturbate when she knew I was at work, I would feel the build- feel the straining of my mussels She would take a long time to climax, it was agony. I would call her and tell her to finish herself off.
“Please, please just finish!” I would beg her.
“Talk to me, tell me about the first time when you fucked me, describe what it felt like, tell me how tight it was -describe how it hurt me”. The desperation in her voice repelled me, but I would do it I would tell her how it was, then she would cum and the line would go dead. We were so connected that when I fucked her for the first time I could feel her pain. I could feel the pain of a young girl losing her virginity and the gratification of a rapist. What delightfully sadistic agony too feel both sensations at once!
Are folks died and we inherited the house and money I moved in with her. We did not have to work, plenty of doe. We were alone together in the house day in and out, I could see no point in trying to lead a normal life, after three years away from her I knew that it was no use. A few times when we had been apart she had taken men to bed with her, she went out of her way to debase herself, I could feel her pain I could feel the emptiness such encounters left inside her. I had raped her when we were children and no other sexual experience could match that memory, so I gave in. I gave in and began living with her. We slept in the same bed we avoided people- we liked to pretend that this was love.
I grew bored I could not enjoy sex with out hurting her. I could feel her pain, and it hurt like hell but she could feel my excitement and when I came she came in response. The only problem was that each time I had to go further to get aroused.
First I held her down, soon that was not enough I had to tie her down. That held me for a long while, over a year. There is something really exciting about watching thin bruised wrists strain against ropes. There is something intoxicating about genuine cries of pain of humiliation. I would cover her mouth with one hand and lean against her throat with my arm I would watch her eyes bulge. See her face drain of blood. Then she would be still and fix those dark eyes on me she was feeling what I was feeling disgust and sexual gratification. This was enough for awhile. Her favorite part was afterwards when I would bathe her, satisfaction would invade her as I gingerly lay her in the water, I could feel her I could feel love the love she felt for me and I loved her then. I would scrub every inch of her. Often while I was scrubbing between her legs with hot water she would cum, which in turn would make me cum. These were are salad days.
Two years passed before I truly began to hate her. She could feel my hate. I felt the hopeless feeling, the despair she felt I knew I had to kill her- every waking moment was agony for her. Hate is the wrong word for what I felt for her. There isn’t a word deep enough to describe what I felt for her, everything she felt I felt. Everything I felt she felt. It was too much sensation. She felt my hatered and repulsion for her. She felt the hatred and repulsion I felt for myself. Her capacity for love and hate went much deeper than mine.
What created us? I had done research on other twins I could not find evidence of anything even approaching the physical and emotional connection we shared- we were truly one person in two separate bodies.
The incest continued becoming more and more depraved. One afternoon I convinced her to let the dog fuck her. I could feel her self hatred I could feel the erotic charge of ultimate humiliation, the sensation was so powerful that for a fraction of a second we were both able to feel what the dog was feeling, we could hear with a dogs ears we could feel her the way the dog did. The canines primitive thrusting was a new high, but it was also the final low. I had to pour water on them to separate them she was bleeding, I kicked the dog. Then I fell on top of her she was screaming. I could feel how raw she was I could feel everything, the current of self-hatred her lungs taking in air to scream. Her throat was raw her pussy was raw, and she would not stop screaming, the neighbors might call the police.
I drug her by the hair into the kitchen, she lay on the floor it was as if she was possessed she was trying to speak but the words were guttural, demonic primitive . She tried to stand pulling herself up on the counter smearing blood everywhere. I could not look at her. For the first time in my life I could not feel her. I could not know her. But I was the cause of this. I created this so it was my job to put it out of its misery.
I went outside to get a shovel, it did not occur to me to use a knife somewhere between the house and the garden shed the idea of sodomizing her with the handle of the shovel sent a charge through me and I could feel her again I could feel her cringe, I could feel that intoxicating current of self-hatred and sexual arousal. In my mind I spoke to her I comforted her, I was able to soothe her fear.
“It will be over soon, I promise”
And I could feel a warm feeling, comfort- she was comforted.
After I had killed her and made love to her, I felt freer I was no longer weighted down by an extra set of emotions. When the night came I still had not cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, rather than cook dinner I ordered a pizza. Then I went down to my locale watering hole and I drank and drank, I could not feel the double feeling of getting two people drunk, and behind my eyes was the image of my twin sister. I wanted her so bad and for the first time it dawned on me that I would never ever have her again.
When I got back home I fell onto the couch and slept but my dreams were only my own. I woke with the dawn and went to the garden shed I grabbed a bottle of ant poison and swallowed as much as I could. For a fraction of a second I could feel her. I went back to the house sat on the couch and drank the rest of the poison. A pain so intense seized me and I could feel her feeling my pain.
“I am coming I told her I am on my way.” I told her
I was standing with her at the bottom of a stair case; we were together, again in death. We mounted the marble staircase, it was a long flight of stairs, and we held hands when we got to the top she paused.
“I don’t know if I want to go upstairs after all.” She whispered.
We never discussed it but we both understood that I would not be able to ascend the stair case with her; if she went upstairs she would leave me behind for good. We would be apart forever more. I killed her and myself I would never be allowed upstairs.
“Let’s go down one more time, ok?”
“Ok.” I said and we went back down the stairs.
Perhaps eons of time have already passed, perhaps mere hours, how can I know?
Even in death we are not free of one another- until she goes upstairs we will never be free but neither of us is willing to part. So up and down the stairs we go. Up and down the stairs for all eternity.
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